True Friend
by kraftykathy
Summary: She continued to lightly trace the veins and arteries of his neck with her lips and fangs, not drawing blood, only teasing the skin lightly. She sighed and Sherlock shivered in response to the sound. "Sherlock, you smell like fucking Sunday dinner!"
1. Denial Twist

**Edited to add disclaimer, I do not own these characters. The story is not for profit.**

**This story is set in a True Blood Universe. It's not categorized as a crossover because there is almost no characters from True Blood (except on AWESOME and fitting surprise!) You don't need to know True Blood _at all_ to enjoy this. I was just the perfect vampire setting. I do borrow shamelessly from the True Blood soundtrack, it has SUCH good tunes! It's gonna be a wild ride!**

_So what, somebody left you in a rut_

_And wants to be the one who's in control_

_But the feeling that you're under can really make you wonder_

_How the hell she can be so cold_

_So now you're mad, denying the truth_

_And it's hidden in the wisdom in the back of your tooth _

_Ya need to spit it out, in a telephone booth_

_While you call everyone that you know, and ask 'em_

_Where do you think she goes_

_Oh ya, where d'ya suppose she goes_

_(Denial Twist – The White Stripes)_

In a remote shadowy corner, hidden away in his Mind Palace, Sherlock Holmes knew what was happening to Molly Hooper. And if this were anything like one of his typical cases he would turn his thoughts inward so he could eagerly explore all the evidence available to reach a definitive conclusion. But for the first time in his life he turned away from the evidence and actively pushed it down deep, far down into the cobwebby dungeons of his thoughts. Perhaps to find a room beside his fear in the guise of a tethered and bound Moriarty.

The distraction of the Magnussen case had turned his thoughts away from Molly Hooper, but it proved only a temporary diversion. As his plane banked and landed, returning him to London to explore the possibility that Moriarty was still alive (Blood, brains and skull fragments upon his sudden suicide made this highly doubtful) his thoughts were brought back once again to his most recent obsession.

Molly.

Something was terribly wrong with Molly. He wanted to know. He didn't want to know. _He knew already. _This was the war that was now waging in his mind. And when did he _ever _let anything deter his pursuit of the truth? When did he let feelings mar his better judgment? If Molly was in trouble wouldn't it be in her best interest if he could just be honest with himself and admit that she was- _Shut up!_

But no. It wasn't that. Couldn't be that. Molly was just Molly. Helpful. Clumsy. Brilliant. Infatuated. Trustworthy. And one of two people he could trust with his life. Always there when he needed her. And if he somehow missed something like this, let something like this happen to her, what kind of friend would that make him? So no, he refused to see the evidence. He shut his eyes to the truth and continued his association with Molly Hooper in the capacity to which he had grown accustomed.

In the past there were two reactions Sherlock could elicit from Molly Hooper and they were tears and arousal. These days Sherlock tried his best in the name of friendship to not abuse this. But being not the most tactful of people he had his lapses to old ways.

He remembered well how these emotions influenced her behaviour, how she would stammer when he would flirt with her to procure items from her lab. She would blush and smile nervously as she played with her hair, making brief anxious eye contact before looking away.

He also had memories of the tears he had caused her. It was hard not to feel a stab of guilt now that she was –_ no she wasn't! Not that!_

There were a few occasions when he had made her flee his presence, but more often she stood her ground, looking at him with sad reproach as the tears coursed down her face. He used to get so angry at the way it made him feel ashamed of himself, like he was small and mean and petty while she held her head high in the face of his cruelty.

These days Molly fled his presence at the slightest provocation and he was entirely too proud to admit how much this upset him. He just wanted their old friendship back. That wasn't sentiment. It was a reasonable logical desire. He needed her to aid him in his work. He would be equally upset if it were John who was a- _shut up!_

As he sat in front of his favorite microscope viewing an array of tissue samples in Bart's lab, he covertly watched Molly as she flitted in and out of the room. It was getting late, past eleven, but that is just how it was with her these days. She only worked nights. Ever. This granted her the advantage of being the pathologist with the most seniority present for any interesting cases that might arrive in the night. But she also missed collaborating with her colleagues which was something that exclusively occurred during the daytime hours. All opportunities to distinguish herself in her field happened during the day. She would never achieve notoriety on an exclusive night shift schedule.

Sherlock knew she was ambitious. Why would she sabotage her career this way? _He knew __why__. NO!_

He needed to stop this foolishness and find out (_confirm_) what was wrong with her. And so the very next time Molly pushed through the doors, Sherlock found himself jumping to his feet to block the door before she could scurry away once more.

Molly looked up at him, clearly startled. Her eyes widened and Sherlock couldn't ignore her ghostly pallor nor the deep shadows that bruised the skin beneath her lower lashes.

"Sherlock!" His name squeaked from her lips, as if he had materialized in front of her unexpectedly from thin air. Her eyes met his briefly before darting away again and she brought a trembling hand to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind one ear.

"W-what, uh . . . I mean . . . C-can I get you a-anything?" Her stammer had reverted to a severity Sherlock had not witnessed since the first day he had met her all those years ago.

"I was about to ask you the very same question, Molly." He stood tall, peering down at her with his sharp intense gaze, trying to see her, to truly see her and his brow furrowed at what he observed.

"I-I don't understand." She looked almost panicked.

"A simple gesture of friendship, Molly. Do keep up. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? I was about to get some myself. So?"

"So?"

Sherlock moved in closer, as close as he had the night she had asked him the very same question that was on his next breath.

"What do you need?" He asked, trying to put as much meaning, to communicate the true intent of the words by the tone of his voice. Her reaction was immediate.

.

_Snick_

A faintly audible sound emitted from behind the hand she had suddenly clasped to her mouth and Molly became quite agitated, avoiding any eye contact while trying to push her way past the consulting detective.

"Please Sherlock." Came her muffled tone from beneath her shaking fingers, "I-I don't need anything, thank-you." She tried to step around him to access the door but Sherlock remained rooted to the spot, eyes narrowed as he studied Molly's reactions.

"Please Sherlock!" She said more insistently. "I n-need to get back to the morgue."

"You've already finished the only post mortem on your schedule. Your only plan for the remainder of the night is to run a toxicology screening on the Pelman case - it will yield no signs of substances ingested or injected – and to file the Death Certificate for the fellow that succumbed to a brain aneurysm this morning. You want to have it ready to accompany the rest of the paper work required by the crematorium. It should have been filed by Dr Halfield as he was the attending pathologist when the body arrived at the morgue long before your shift. You are covering for his negligence. You shouldn't. He will never become competent if you do his job for him."

Molly tried to push past him again, ignoring the uncanny accuracy of his assessment of her night's duties.

"I forgot my lap top down-"

"It's over there, Molly." Sherlock pointed at the long table lined with beakers and sample bottles.

"Please, please, Sherlock, just let me through. I-I'll get something to eat myself. Thank- you! I-I don't need any help!" Once again she tried to push her way past Sherlock and he grabbed her wrist as she shoved at his arm. Sherlock felt the terrible coldness of her flesh.

"Something has happened to you, Molly and I intend to find out. So you could save us both the time and trouble and just tell me now." He spoke to her in his most authoritative tone.

Molly was still clasping one hand over her mouth and now her eyes slipped shut. Sherlock was hard pressed to decipher the emotions that twisted her features – he had never been especially astute when it came to interpreting feelings. He felt her arousal, but it seemed to be threaded with whispers of sadness and fear. She stood like that for a moment and then she leaned towards him and did the strangest thing. She sniffed him. Her nostrils flared and she inhaled deeply.

When she opened her eyes Sherlock could not miss the look of absolute terror on her face. Though his cool facade remained intact, inside he felt his own responding stab of a nameless dread. It was so foreign to him. He had faced so many formidable and destructive people along the path of his life but never something that left him feeling so powerless.

"I want to leave. Let me go!" She cried.

Sherlock would not budge so Molly pulled her hand from his grasp and used it to shove him. To Sherlock's utter shock he was flung from his feet far across the length of the lab where he came crashing down into the stools at the end of the table. There was a smashing sound as several glass beakers jostled by the impact tumbled over the edge of the table shattering against the tiled floor. The glass showered Sherlock's long coat as he lay in a tangle of upturned chairs on the floor.

"Sherlock!" Molly cried.

He looked up at her too surprised by this impossible display of strength to respond to her shout. He struggled to his feet and took a tentative step towards her but before he could get far she held up both of her hands in a warding off gesture.

"I'm so sorry!" She sobbed and Sherlock could finally see her mouth. Her extended fangs were long and sharp, the pointed tips gleamed in the florescent lighting of the laboratory and bright red blood tracked down her cheeks in place of tears as she cried.

"Leave me alone, Sherlock. You can't help me, so just leave me alone." And with that she turned and ran from the room leaving Sherlock alone with the chaos of his thoughts.

His biggest fear was confirmed. He knew it. He had always known it, for months, every since her change. But for once in his lifetime he had desperately wished he was wrong and he had found himself living in denial of the truth because it meant that Molly was right. He was too late and nothing he could do would help her now. He couldn't save her. He couldn't jump off of a building or take down a criminal network to protect her. The damage was done and he had not been there to help.

No matter what he did now the fact remained that Molly Hooper was a vampire.


	2. Mad World

**Nope, still don't own it!**

**Oh, such an angsty chapter for Molly, the poor girl!**

_All around me are familiar faces_

_Worn out places, worn out faces_

_Bright and early for their daily races_

_Going nowhere, going nowhere_

_Their tears are filling up their glasses_

_No expression, no expression_

_Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow_

_No tomorrow, no tomorrow_

_(Mad World – Gary Jules)_

Molly stepped out into the dark streets of London. Walking through the darkest roads and dimmest alleys, she disregarded every thing she was taught as a little girl about the dangers that lurked in shadowy places. These days _she_ was what lurked in the shadows. Small, mousy Molly Hooper. The quiet girl of Bart's Hospital Morgue.

What harm could she possibly be, this shy diminutive person? Surely she was no threat, no danger. She should run to the well lit streets and the bustling safety of public places. That was the proper place for a smart and cautious young woman in these dangerous times. She should avoid the places that made even the least instinctive folks look about nervously, sensing the threat that remained hidden in the night.

Molly no longer feared assault. She knew she was safe from rape and robbery and murder. She could walk with confidence in places she would never have set foot in during the light of day, never mind the deepest dark of a cloudy and moonless night.

But she was more frightened now than she had ever been in her life.

It was not the dark alleys of London that sent waves of fear, as searing as jolts of electricity coursing through her body. The powerful metamorphosis that her physical being had endured left her with no doubts regarding her newly acquired strength. Her fears stemmed from the miles of unmapped road that was now her future.

Gone were the days when she knew precisely what was going to happen in her life and approximately when each milestone would be met.

Not long ago she had spent countless hours dreaming about each tiny detail of her future wedding dress. She imagined the intricate patterns in the lace. She envisioned the tightly corseted bodice. She could almost feel the texture of the fabric with its tucks and gathers, the yards of fabric billowing out behind her, surrounding her like a mist in a dream where the princess find her prince and they live happily ever after.

She dreamed of a cozy little country cottage made of cut stone with brightly painted doors and shutters, welcoming and homey. The kitchen would look out on a garden where she would plant flowers and vegetables. In a few years a baby or two would grow into children and they would run and shout in that garden with the dog barking happily after them.

She would still work, of course. In a smaller hospital. Not as challenging perhaps, but she would be the chief pathologist, so a promotion, regardless.

Molly's life would consist of birthday parties and home made cake. There would be picnics and beach holidays. The tooth fairy would make her visits to collect teeth in exchange for coins and life would be a joyful rush to school concerts and piano lessons. At night there would be a cozy fire in the fireplace and Tom. Tom to come home to. Tom to raise a family with. Tom to grow old together.

It seemed a dream come true. Too good for the morbid little lady from the morgue.

And as it turned out, it _was_ too good to be true.

At first she thought she could go back to her previous life. That was something, wasn't it? She had been happy in her own way. She had her flat. She had her job. She had her cat. But Tom couldn't just leave her with that. He had to take it all. He had to take the shattered pieces of her life and grind them into a dust that would never again resemble its former state. Never.

The physical changes she had suffered meant catering to a whole new realm of bodily demands and limits that made her future seem shrouded in uncertainties. She was an infant learning everything anew.

But she knew that people had existed like this for centuries (and some of those people were still walking around to this day, she realized with another wave of fear).

She walked through the darkness, hands shoved deeply in her coat pockets, her ponytail whipped around in the bitter winter wind. Cold spats of rain stung her skin intermittently and she stopped for a moment, pressing her back into the cold brick wall. Pain cramped through her body, squeezing and twisting before fading away. She was left feeling weakened and faint.

She would need to feed soon.

She fought to control her hunger with every fibre of her being. To acknowledge the predator within her, she would need to go down that terrible path. She knew where it lead. It was the place she always returned to because she always came to the point where there was no other choice but to give in and give up.

Tonight she would resist. Tomorrow night would be a different story.

Tonight she would dine on Tru Blood if her body would only accept it. She had ordered a case of B neg which had finally arrived and she hoped she would be able to keep it down. It was Molly's great misfortune to have a synthetic blood intolerance and had found it difficult to ingest for nourishment.. This was her last chance to find a synth blood that her body wouldn't reject so she could live a somewhat normal life, purchasing her food at a shop like normal people do. Otherwise she would have to continue sneaking litres of blood from work, but Vampires Rights Movement or not, she had been given restricted access to go along with her new life status.

And if that failed she would be forced to return to Tom. She had done so before and she would probably have to again, But she hated it, absolutely hated it!

But the blood was so fresh. So hot and delicious. Nothing was like blood fresh from the source! Her thoughts turned back to the strange confrontation with Sherlock. At one point he had grabbed her and she could smell him. She could **smell **the intoxicating aroma of his blood! It smelled like every good smell she could imagine but better. It was indescribably inviting. She could smell the blood of everyone around her these days, but the blood of Sherlock Holmes was like nothing she had every experienced before. And she was starving!

She had not yet killed anyone. And she had no intentions of EVER killing ANYONE. EVER. A vampire could live without killing if she was very careful.

Molly would be that. She could be a very careful vampire. Somehow she would learn to live like this and maintain some sense of herself. She could still be Molly, couldn't she? Because if she couldn't somehow make her peace with this new existence. How could she continue at all?

And so she had finished her duties and left work early. The one thing she could thank the Vampire Rights Movement for was the accommodations that were made for her at work. She chose not to reveal her . . . predicament to anyone but a select few in administration so she could apply for the changes she needed to continue her job. But it wouldn't remain a secret forever. Sherlock had proven that tonight.

So she walked on ignoring the cold and the rain to seclude herself in the privacy of her own flat, to drink synthetic blood that her system rebelled against, to feed her cat that sensed that she was dead and had subsequently rejected her, hissing and fleeing at the sight of her, and to sit in the empty loneliness of her new existence.


	3. Bad Blood

**I don't own this, I just play with these characters for my own amusement. Maybe someone else will find it amusing too? I hope so! Things are heating up!**

_I don't care if it takes all night_

_'Cause there's bad blood _

_Pumping in your veins_

_It's alright_

_(Beck – Bad Blood)_

The Great Revelation had shocked the world over. The fact that vampires were no longer just the stuff of mythical horror stories shook the very foundations of science. The first thing to happen was the formation of a group of official representatives to aid the transitional period. The British Vampire League based in London worked in collaboration with the British Parliament to quickly create a set of laws to include the countries newest citizens.

All this had taken place just over a year ago, though Sherlock had paid little heed being rather preoccupied with the torture being inflicted upon him in a Serbian lockup. By the time he was settling back into his old life in London, the initial frenzy in the news had some what calmed, and as Sherlock had not yet met a member of the new vampire community, he had chosen to view the whole thing with more than a bit of skepticism.

Yes, he had believed that a new blood born virus resulting from pathogenic mutation had presented a series of symptoms including anemia, photosensitivity and extreme food allergies. But he believed that the vampire hype was scientifically unsubstantiated hyperbole created by the media to keep the masses buying their absurd gossip rags. And in his experience there was no depths too low for which the like would not sink.

He had yet to read one convincing scientific document supporting the condition that didn't ignore the laws of physics. He had finally written it off as just another part of pop culture trending that he would never understand.

But the news didn't just fade away like some over-hyped Christmas toy. The Vampires were here to stay. Stories began to flood all sources of media that described unbelievable and unsettling feats by the so-called vampire population. The frequency of such sightings grew until it was difficult to dismiss them.

What finally brought home the reality of vampires to the entire country was a tragic incident involving a rowdy group of fangbashers that resulted in the death of a member of the vampire community. The news depicted the vampire as the victim of this terrible crime inspired by bigotry and hatred.

The slight young man had been bound in chains of silver and tossed from the back of a windowless van right in Piccadilly Circus to the horror of locals and tourists alike. The whole incident was recorded on shaky camera phones at every conceivable angle and the images were broadcast around the world. The incident had occurred in full day light and the vampire had writhed and screamed as smoke billowed from his sun scorched flesh for almost ten minutes before he burst into earnest flames and succumbed to his injuries. No one knew what to do. A well meaning man with a fire extinguisher had tried to help, but the flames grew rather than diminished. In the end, only ashes remained.

John Watson watched the images in horror while Sherlock had theorized on several different chemical compounds that could simulate such a reaction.

"Christ, Sherlock, Why does it matter how it happened? A man was burned to death! There's no justification for hate crimes!"

"And that is a valid excuse to gloss over the fact that the media is purporting the story that a man burst into flames merely from sun exposure? Where is the scientific evidence that supports this theory? Not every person in London could possibly be so stupid as to believe this nonsense!"

"It doesn't matter, Sherlock. This man could be just some poor delusional bloke that talks to Napoleon and Elvis when not flitting about as a bat. It doesn't matter one bit! He was sadistically murdered because of what he claimed to be and that is actually the thing that should horrify you!"

"I am horrified, John! Horrified by the number of idiots permitted to work in the media! Horrified by the sheer stupidity of the general public that believes this . . . this . . . rubbish!"

Sherlock had thrown himself onto the sofa in a huff and John had stomped out of 221 muttering under his breath about unfeeling pompous robots.

But one thing had come from this act of violence. It had bolstered the public opinion of vampires and created an atmosphere of empathy and acceptance. The victims cherubic face adorned the front pages of all the news papers and frequented every news report on television. He looked barely old enough to grow facial hair and public sympathy swelled for the murder of this non-threatening youth.

Still the vampire population was tiny and it never crossed over into Sherlock's world of crime investigation, so he found it easiest to ignore the whole thing. It created such discord with his scientific thought process, he felt it best to file away the existence of vampires for the time.

Then Molly had happened and for the first time in his life he found himself ignoring the evidence that should have made her plight obvious. So after the confrontation in the lab, he was faced with the terrible truth.

Sherlock seemed frozen as his mind turned over all the clues he had locked away. He stood there in the lab, the stools still lying on the floor were he had come crashing down. There he remained unmoving for quite some time before prodding himself into action. He wanted to – No! He _needed _to find Molly. He had so many questions that needed answers! She had told him to leave her alone, but Sherlock decided then and there that he would pursue this until he felt some sense of understanding. Above all things Sherlock Holmes hated not knowing!

A brief search and a few quick questions around the lightly staffed night shift enabled him to determine that Molly had finished her work and had left the hospital. Swiftly he exited the warmth of the dimly lit corridors and turning his collar up to block the bitter wind. He ran out into the blustery night.

A short while later he was standing outside of Molly's building. From his vantage point in the street he could make out Molly's silhouette through the white curtain of her window. Why did his feet hesitate to carry him through the door to her building? With such intriguing evidence, he should be tripping over them right now in his hurry to learn more! Why did he feel such uneasiness in the face of discovering the truth behind the vampire epidemic? He didn't know, but the memory of Molly's bloody tears finally spurred him onward.

He easily slipped through the street doors and made his way up to her third floor flat.

In the past he had used Molly's place on occasion as a bolt hole of sorts. He had easily slipped into her rooms in the past without her notice and had frightened her several times with his sudden appearance. That was not to be the case this time!

He crept silently through the hallway to her door and as he stretched out his hand to grasp the door handle he heard Molly call from inside.

"Doors open."

And so he quietly let himself in, removing his coat and hanging it from the hook on the wall.

Molly stood with her back to the door busying herself with the process of preparing tea in her tiny kitchenette. Her hair was in a messy knot on top of her head and she wore a long white night shirt and wooly socks. Her bare legs were as deathly pale as the rest of her, Sherlock observed as she filled the kettle with water from the kitchen sink. For a moment Sherlock only stood there watching her as she placed the kettle on the hob.

There was a drawn out silence before Molly spoke, still turned away so her face remained obscured.

"I-I wondered when you would figure it out." She stood hunched at the counter and her voice quavered nervously. "I just thought . . .it w-would be sooner."

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to calm his thoughts, gathering the control and authority he wore like armor but when he opened his mouth to speak, words failed him.

"It's alright. I-I don't blame you. I know the Great Revelation wasn't something you would easily believe. I didn't at first, either."

Sherlock found his voice. "Molly, all of this is just a set of physiological symptoms bound by limitations of physical law. This fantasy being fed to the public is just whimsy."

He observed her straightening posture, shoulders no longer hunched.

"I know you 're sick, Molly. You've aided me in the past. I can help, but you have to face the reality of your illness. It is no more supernatural than haemophilia or-"

Molly cut him off mid sentence, and turned to face him.

"I have not fed in two days. That might not be long by your standards but for a new vampire, it's a rather long stretch. I have almost no blood in me right now. As a result, my body temperature is only 21 degrees Celsius. My heart is pumping at a rate of 6 beat per minute -"

Molly, that's ridiculous! It's not possible."

She stepped towards him.

"Then feel my pulse, if you can. It may be too weak to detect without a monitor."

Sherlock scoffed at this but reached out to take the wrist she offered. Once again he was clasping her icy limb, this time his thumb placed over her pulse point . . . but there wasn't one. He couldn't feel it at all. He let go of her wrist and reached his palm to her chest, pausing his hand in mid air while he looked to Molly for approval. She nodded and he pressed his hand flat between her small breasts.

He waited a minute and then went as far as pressing his ear to Molly's chest before he stepped away, looking at her in shocked disbelief.

"That can't be!"

"I know." Molly's only reply as the kettle began to whistle cheerily.

"I assume you would like some." She asked as she poured the boiling water into her favorite tea pot.

"Yes." Sherlock answered, stunned into using proper manners. "If you're having any."

"No. I'll be skipping tea, I'm afraid. I don't really _do_ tea anymore."

She set the table with the pink tea pot and a matching cup and saucer and she brought out a packet of chocolate biscuits, sliding several from the plastic wrap onto a plate before laying the dish along side the tea setting. With the tea well steeped, she filled Sherlock's cup and added two sugars, gesturing for him to sit down at the table while she retrieved her own refreshment from the fridge.

Sherlock watched in silent fascination as Molly removed a bottle and took it to the microwave. While it heated she removed it several times to gauge the temperature with a small food thermometre, before she seemed satisfied with the results

"Thirty-seven degrees Celsius." she stated. "Of course it doesn't keep that warm for long. Cheers."

She held up the bottle for a moment, but didn't wait for Sherlock to respond in like with his cup of tea in some parody of a toast. She tossed back a long draught of the synthetic blood and grimaced as she placed the bottle on the table between them.

"Tastes like tomato soup and piss." Molly sighed sadly.

He noted the details of the bottle, the clear glass revealing the thick red substance within. The simple design of the label read B Negative (his own blood type he observed) across the top and the brand name, _ Tru Blood_ printed boldly in large red lettering was set on a black background. In smaller print were Japanese characters, a translation of the brand name.

"May I?" Sherlock asked pointing at the bottle.

"Help yourself." She replied as Sherlock picked up the bottle and tentatively sniffed the contents. It smelled like a very accurate facsimile of the real thing as far as he could tell.

"Can you get all of your nourishment from this?" He asked incredulously.

"So I was told, but it hasn't proven to be so, in my case."

"It hasn't? Why not?"

"My body seems to reject synthetic blood. Like lactose intolerance, I guess. This is the last blood type I had left to try, so we will find out soon if it works. So far so good." She reached over and knocked on the wooden surface of the table.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, Molly? Knocking on wood will hardly affect the outcome of your experiment. It's superstitious nonsense."

Molly stared at him for a second before cocking her thumb at herself. "Yes, well you know – vampire." She made one bitter bark of laughter.

She took the bottle from his grasp and drank down the rest in a few large gulps. Placing the bottle back on the table she swiped away the blood on her lip and heaved a sigh.

"Surely there are other things you can eat. I understand there are dietary restrictions with this condition. Have you sought proper medical advice? Have you tried -"

"Are you serious? Do you really think I haven't thought of all of that already?" She looked at him angrily.

Sherlock proceeded with caution wishing that he hadn't dismissed the vampire situation as rubbish. He knew he was ill informed and hated the feeling.

"What have you consumed since . . . since the . . .the change_?" __Oh for God's sake why was this so hard for him!_

"Nothing Sherlock! Nothing but Tru Blood and few litres of blood I nicked from work before they restricted my access and . . . other sources of blood."

Sherlock felt cold inside when he considered the other sources.

"You expect me to believe you have lived on that?"

"It's been four months since I've ingested food! I can't get nourishment from it anymore.Don't you get it yet, Sherlock? This isn't a bloody _condition! _I'm DEAD!"

Suddenly Molly buckled over clutching her belly.

Sherlock knocked over his chair in his haste as he rushed around the table to where she sat.

"Molly! What is it?!"

But she just held up one hand to keep a distance between them. Her face was contorted in pain but she just stood slowly.

"Wait here." She hissed between clenched teeth and walked calmly to the loo, closing the door quietly.

The terribly grinding sounds emitting from the other side of the closed door had Sherlock running to it and pounding with his fist against the wood.

"Molly!" He called but there was no reply.

He jiggled the door handle, but it was locked. He took a step back looking at the door and observed that it was a cheaply constructed replacement. The original door from an older building like this would have proven difficult, but Sherlock was able to knock this door from the frame with a couple of firm thrusts from his shoulder.

The sight that met his eyes sent his mind reeling.

An impossible geyser of blood was spewing forth from Molly's mouth drenching the room in a horror show of crimson. The sheer volume seemed impossible for this one tiny woman. Hadn't she just finished telling him that she had almost no blood in her? Then where was all of this coming from? The coppery stench of blood filled the air.

When the torrent finally slowed Molly sank to the floor in a faint. Sherlock shook himself to clear his thoughts of the shock - he would have to consider the physical impossibility of the situation later. Right now Molly needed help!

He carefully picked her up, soaking the sleeves of his jacket in the gore that puddled on the floor. He grimaced at the impossible iciness of her body as he gathered her in his arms. Molly's head hung back limply, her chin and neck streaked bright red and the front of her white night shirt positively drenched with the blood. His intent was to carry her to the sofa in her sitting room.

As he walked down the hall Molly's arms slide up to gently encircle his shoulders and he heard that sound of her fangs extending. She lifted her head and he could feel her cold breath breeze across his exposed neck as she began to sniff him once more.

"I've always loved your neck. So long and pale. Such beauty!"

Her voice sounded strange with a sultry quality he had never heard her use before. The brush of her fingers on his skin stopped him in his tracks as he cradled her in his arms.

"Mmmm, you smell so tasty." She breathed. He could feel her soft cold lips touch his neck and his skin pebbled in gooseflesh.

"So delicious." She whispered. Her fangs scraped delicately across his skin dangerously close to his jugular. He knew that she must see the way his blood pumped furiously as his heart hammered a wild pace. Could she sense his fear? He couldn't pretend he didn't feel it. Every molecule of his being was in a state of hyper awareness, awaiting the order to fight or flee.

Sherlock Holmes did not easily admit to feeling frightened, but he would easily confess it, if it meant he could deny the inexplicable thrill that coursed through his body right along side the fear, awakening a long dormant desire at Molly's words and touch.

She continued to lightly trace the veins and arteries of his neck with her lips and fangs, not drawing blood, only teasing the skin lightly. She sighed and Sherlock shivered in response to the sound.

"Sherlock, you smell like fucking Sunday dinner."


	4. You Smell Like Dinner

**Thank you for reading and reviews! Y'all are just lovely! **

**Thank you for getting past any spelling and grammar errors or awkwardly phrased sentences - I'm doing my own editing and sometimes when you stare at the same piece of work for the 50th time, you just can't see the mistakes anymore!**

**I don't own it. Yup.**

_I'm thinking nasty thoughts, but I'm no sinner_

_Hmmm Baby, you smell like dinner!_

_(You Smell Like Diner – Jinx Titanic & Super 8 Cum Shot) _

Molly Hooper's concept of pain had recently undergone a pretty radical revision to accompany her physiological changes. She thought that she had a pretty good understanding and could even handle her fair share. Some of the knowledge came from her own life experience. Her first real encounter that went beyond the regular bumps, scrapes and bruises of childhood happened when she was eight year old. Throughout the whole episode of acute appendicitis and the subsequent surgical removal of the offending organ, her parents had reassured her, telling her how brave she was being. But her clearest memory was not of pain, but asking her mother why she didn't get to eat ice cream like her cousin who had recently had her tonsils removed. That just didn't seem fair!

A few years later, when she was fourteen and experiencing all the awkwardness of adolescence, which in Molly Hooper's case was additionally exacerbated by the famous Hooper clumsy gene, she took a terrible spill down a flight of stairs at her school while rushing to class. This landed her in the hospital again, this time with a broken ankle and a concussion that resulted in months of splitting head aches. She rarely complained as it wasn't in her nature. She quietly suffered through the pain, pulling her blinds down to shut out the light that amplified the dull throbbing ache. Far worse was the relentless teasing when she returned to class as fellow students would cruelly remark on Molly Hooper, the girl who would throw herself down a flight of stairs rather than miss a biology midterm. Offers of bicycle helmets to help her get to class safely followed the cutting taunts.

In her medical training she learned to wield a scalpel with grace. There was no room for awkwardness here and she demonstrated a skilful precision when it came to dissection. Unfortunately fellow student David Allerton whom she had been rather infatuated with at the time, was not as clever with his hands. Partnered in Anatomy, they poured over the cadiovascular system of a 52 year old female cadaver. They were to explore the thoracic wall, pleura and pericardium and David in his enthusiasm cut Molly's left forefinger so deeply it required seven stitches and left an impressive scar. Last she heard, David had moved on to the pharmaceutical field and stuck with lab work where he would never have to subject a human to his lethal touch. Molly thought this a wise choice on his part. She was thankful to still possess all of her fingers but she _did_ miss that charming smile and dimpled chin of his!

Of course Molly's most recent experience in pain was as an observer. On medical rotation she saw it all the time but watching her father's slow deterioration was completely different. It was as if she could feel it herself. That was the deepest human suffering she had ever witnessed but human perception is limited. A body can experience intense pain until it can no longer tolerate it and death brings reprieve such was her father's case. But Molly Hooper was already dead and as a result there was no escape for her, no oblivion to bring an end to her suffering.

Molly knew her body was going to reject the synthetic B negative as soon as the first pains began to rip through her body. It felt like her insides were tearing apart and she doubled over clutching her abdomen. Having gone through the ordeal several times previously, she knew to get herself to the toilet in a hurry and she managed a stumbling retreat.

Closing the door just as the next wave twisted her insides in painful convulsions she purged a torrent of blood that painted her lavender tiles in garish red vividness. The room began to spin as she became vaguely aware of Sherlock pounding upon the door. Stars danced behind her closed eyelids as she sank to the floor, until everything went black and she lost conscious thought.

When awareness returned, she found herself in Sherlock's arms, her teeth scraping the pale flesh of his beautiful neck and that intoxicating aroma of his blood flooding her senses. She focused on the network of veins and arteries that danced enticingly beneath his flesh as the blood coursed through his pulsing veins. Her mouth watered at the very sight!

A quick thrust would see her teeth buried in his neck and his blood pumping into her mouth. And she would swallow down every ounce of his precious life force. It would be so easy to act on her impulse. One little move and she would have him, truly _have_ him beyond every sense that word. She would _have _him and he would be a part of her, flowing through her veins, coursing through her body, his blood penetrating her very being! The thought overwhelmed her with desire!

_Oh God! _Such intense need flowed through her, she almost went through with it.

So thrilling was the realization that she could feel his reactions and that for once in her life, _she_ was the one who could read_ hi__m_. The way his heart raced causing the veins and arteries in his neck to throb rapidly, and the heat - it betrayed his body's response to her touch. She could see it like a thermographic camera, sensing the heat flush through his body and it was the most erotic thing she had every experienced in her life!

"Sherlock, you smell like fucking Sunday dinner!" The words left her lips as if of their own volition, shocking her as much as they must him.

"Should I be concerned for my safety?" He spoke in a voice that betrayed nothing, sounding as calm and cool as ever. It was that which helped her gain some control of herself. She drew from his strength and applied it to her own will. And it took every ounce of self strength before she was able to ease her mouth away from his neck.

It gave her a new insight regarding Sherlock's ability to function in crisis, how he always seemed so controlled in situations that would have had her crying and cowering. Now she knew that he felt the thrill and the terror, but he could act in spite of his emotions. And it was quite the act!

As if to further prove this point, he began to calmly walk once again towards the sofa.

Still struggling with her impulse, she visualized Sherlock falling to the floor, throat torn out, blood spraying from the wound darkening her carpet crimson. She imagined his lifeless body as a result of that momentary union with his essence, the person he was snuffed out of existence - it properly horrified her how close she had come to acting on her new instincts!

"Just put me down." Molly spoke in a strained voice.

Walking at a steady pace, he crossed the room and gently lowered her to the sofa and she unwound her arms from his body, releasing the tight grasp in which she had held him. Pulling her knees up, she hugged them creating an effective shield. For a moment she just sat, eyes closed, body trembling with hunger and subsiding blood lust and what it had so nearly cost them both. She despaired at what that might imply about the long road ahead of her. Surely she couldn't be capable of murder, could she? Molly Hooper, a killer? It sounded too outrageous to be true!

After a moment she stretched open her mouth and she was able to retract her fangs. Sherlock watched this action with obvious fascination. The pain had passed and her vision was clearing but she was still a bit dizzy.

"I-I think you will be safe tonight." Molly stated shakily. "But I would recommend extreme caution tomorrow night. Please don't try to come here again!"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, gave her his _I-won't-be-told-what-to-do _look and continued as if he had not almost become her snack moments ago.

Walking into the kitchenette, he retrieved a dish towel which he dampened under the faucet and brought to Molly so she could tidy herself. She thanked him and began wiping the blood from her chin and neck. She thought she must look terrible, soaked in blood, ghastly pale and no doubt, her lips were probably starting to turn a bit blue by now to complete her death-warmed-over look.

"I still have a unit of blood I nicked from the hospital. I'll be alright." For some reason she felt the need to reassure him with a small lie. It had always been Molly's way to avoid drawing attention to her own troubles and needs.

He looked at her with obvious disbelief and she let her eyes drop. There was nothing he could do to help her, so why shouldn't she tell a fib? He should take it as permission to not concern himself over the mess she had landed herself in this time. It was too big and it would be utterly pointless for him to pretend to care. Oh, he was here now, that was surprising in itself, but she knew it had more to do with his own inability to accept this brave new world. Things were going to be quite different now. Was it her fault if all of this was rather unsettling to a certain consulting detective? It certainly was no reason for him to have any deeper involvement. Her eyes fell on the blood splattered thickly down the front of her shirt. It was a sticky mess and she pulled at the drenched fabric plastered to her chest.

"C-could you just help me get a fresh shirt? My room, top drawer . . . Please?"

With surprising compliance, he turned to go to her room. He was back in a moment handing her a large purple jersey shirt. She held it in her hand as she just looked up at him for a moment. He took the hint and politely turned his back to her so she could change.

She pulled off the blood soaked clothing. It was sticky and clung to her skin and she tossed it to the floor. Her bra, once white was soaked crimson as well. She peeled the clinging fabric carefully away and looked up briefly, but Sherlock remained politely facing away. She took a brief moment to wipe the tackiness from her breasts and abdomen with the damp towel. The band at the top of her knickers were stained but there was no chance she was going to ask him to rummage through her delicates. She would deal with it later. It was going to take a proper shower to truly wash away all the blood and that would have to wait until her head stopped spinning. For now she pulled on the fresh shirt.

"Thank-you." She told him when she was done and he turned back to face her.

She gestured to the sofa. "Do you want to sit? I'd say I don't bite but . . ." She shrugged and laughed. There was a note of hysteria in the sound.

He approached the sofa and sat down leaving a decorous space between them. He looked at her for awhile before speaking.

"Molly, who did this to you?"

"Doesn't matter, does it? The damage is done."

He scowled at that. "Of course it matters! Did . . . did you let this happen?"

"No! No! How could you think I-I would let anyone do this to me? Why would I ever do that!" How could he think that she would have permitted anyone to do this to her? Of course there were stories of people begging for the immortality that vampirism offered. But at what cost? Molly was not afraid of growing old. She was not afraid of dying. There had been a time when she had struggled with the concept of her own mortality. Her career made it hard to ignore, but she faced her demons until she had found peace in the faces of humanity that fell under her gentle care at St Bart's. There were people who fought age tooth and nail, but she knew she would age graciously, enjoying everything that life offered at every stage, as it came. She would appreciate life day by day, savoring each one she was given and when it was time for her to die, she hoped she would go with dignity.

It was the unknown that scared her the most.

Molly was not the only one living in fear. Curiosity finally got the better of Molly's cat, Toby. He crept into the room at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. There was a time when he would have hidden under Molly's bed when she had company. Now the prospect of a visitor drove the cat out into the open. The animal jumped into Sherlock's lap, starving for the attention he refused to take from Molly. It was a miscalculation of character as Sherlock was decidedly not a cat person. He tried to gently brush the animal off of his lap, but Toby dug his claws into his trousers and refused to budge.

Old Molly surfaced briefly to gently scold her pet."Now Toby, you need to clear off. Sherlock's not going to give you cuddles. Clear off." She gave Sherlock an apologetic look and reached over to pull the cat away. At her touch, Toby reacted violently, arching his back and hissing. He raked his claws down her hand, opening a surprisingly deep wound across Molly's palm.

"Ow!" Molly cried. "Bloody stupid cat!" She snatched her hand away, clutching the damaged skin tightly. Toby darted away to Molly's bedroom.

"Let me see." Sherlock gestured to her hand and she held it out for him to examine. He took it in his own and observed the scratch. It was a surprisingly deep but only a few drops of blood seeped out.

As Sherlock held Molly's hand up to examine it, the skin appeared to ripple, just a little at first, barely perceptible and then some more.

"W-what's happening!" Molly cried.

Sherlock leaned in closer. He squinted as if it would somehow help him to understand what he was witnessing.

They watched as the raw reddened edges of the wound begin to knit themselves together until it was only a red line, as if it was weeks healed. Next it faded to a fine white scar. In a moment it disappeared altogether, leaving no sign that the scratch had ever happened,.

They shared a stunned wide eyed look until Molly, suddenly self conscious, snatched her hand out of Sherlock's grasp. She held it up in front of her eyes and waggled her fingers for a second not believing what she saw before clasping her hands together as if hiding away evidence.

She laughed again, that hint of hysteria playing at the edges of the sound. "Well, I didn't know I could do that." And then she laughed until she cried.

There was not much Sherlock could do to comfort Molly as she sobbed and so he sat there looking awkward until Molly spoke again.

"My bloody cat hates me, you know." She sniffled. "Hated me since – this." she waved her hand around frantically. "He knows."

"What does he know, Molly?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"He knows I'm dead."

She started to cry harder, bloody tears dripping down the face she had just scrubbed clean. Sherlock dug a handkerchief from his pocket and tried to hand it to Molly.

"It'll stain." She said trying to push it away.

"Oh please!" Sherlock huffed in annoyance and pushed it at her again. Taking it, she wiped bloody streaks into the delicate white fabric.

"What am I going to tell my Mum?" She blew her nose noisily into the hanky. "She's a devout Catholic, you know. Not like the ones who go on about religion but then ditch church to nurse hangovers or watch sports on telly. She's a right proper Catholic, confessions and Hail Mary's, the whole lot. I haven't talked to her in months! She was so mad at me when I called off the engagement. She blames me for destroying her dreams of grand babies, I guess."

Sherlock said nothing, but kept his intense gaze on her as he listened attentively.

"She's not been the same since Dad died. She's so . . . pious. Almost blindly so. She hated the Great Revelation. She's not at all a supporter of main streaming. Vampires are the devil's spawn is how she phrased it. What am I going to do? How am I supposed to tell her that her only daughter is dead?"

To this Sherlock replied."It's true she may experience difficulty with the idea at first. Most people have a period of adjustment to major changes. But she will accept it when she realizes that despite her daughter's death, she is still has full access to her only child. She can still see you and talk to you and be in your company. That should please her, shouldn't it? It is much more than most people get."

"I wish that could be true." Molly shook her head sadly. "But somehow, I don't think she will see it that way. I'm dead to her, she just doesn't know it yet."

They sat in silence for a moment until Molly realized that Sherlock had drifted off to that place he goes when he is working out some tenuous connections. She wondered what he could possibly be making of all of this. Just awhile ago, he had scoffed at the very idea of vampires and now the evidence was thrust before him, staring him in the face. The silence stretched out as he remained frozen in his seat until suddenly he became animated.

He turned to look at her and said. "Molly, you're dead!"

She couldn't stop a slight smirk from touching her lips. "No shit!"

He rolled his eyes in that way only Sherlock could and it was so comforting and familiar Molly couldn't help but to feel just a tiny bit better.

"No, no! I mean you're dead. You're dead and it was against your will which means that this, Molly Hooper, was murder!"

He started to get that gleam in his eye and he jumped up from the sofa and began to pace the room excitedly. He continued to speak waving his arms emphatically as his agitation grew.

"This is murder which means there is a murderer. I believe the British Vampire Amendment states that making a vampire is legal only if it is between two consenting adults, am I right? You stated that this was not consensual on your part. I will have to do some research - I had dismissed legal ramifications of the Great Revelation, but I believe the time has came to brush up on the law!"

He was looking quite excited, a bright smile on his face as he strode back and forth.

"Oh Molly this is perfect!"

"What do you mean? How could this be in any way perfect?" Molly watched him with bemusement wondering what this mad genius had in mind.

"Quite simply, Molly – you have had the terrible misfortune of being murdered. But luckily you are personally acquainted with the world's only consulting detective. I plan to solve this murder! Oh, it will be brilliant! A first of it's kind, I believe!"

"Please Sherlock, you don't know what you are getting into!" Molly begged.

Sherlock waved away her concern. "Nonsense! What happened to you is a crime. I am certain there are legal repercussions. Someone will be accountable. Of course it would be easier if you just told me." He glanced over at her anxiously, like he rather hoped she would not tell him. She did not disappoint.

"Well it's quite complicated. No matter how much I hate what he did to me I can't just turn him in." She was looking down at the hem of her shirt picking at a loose thread to avoid his eyes.

"Why? Why can't you?"

"It's hard to explain the relationship, Sherlock! He's my maker. I'm his progeny." She hated how that made her sound . . . like a willing participant when nothing could be further from the truth. She looked up at Sherlock wanting him to understand this impossible situation. "I don't have to like what was done to me. And I would love to turn him in but I just can't! I don't want you to do this. It's too dangerous. And it's too late!"

"Danger? You only make it sound more intriguing! And I'm glad you can't tell me. I prefer the challenge, though I believe this will be terribly easy." Sherlock looked positively gleeful. "In the mean time pack up your cat, Molly. I know someone who will look after him, if you would like."

Molly was too stunned to do anything but find Toby's carrier and put his cans of food into a shopping bag while Sherlock caught the feline and closed him into the container.

Molly looked from her hissing cat to the smiling consulting detective. "I wish you would leave this alone. It's not like anything you've dealt with before." She tossed a couple of Toby's cat toys into the bag and put it on the floor beside the carrier.

"All the more reason to forge onward. I will enjoy the challenge. Oh it's like my birthday!" He practically skipped over to where Molly stood wringing her hands nervously.

"I'm scared. There is so much that you don't know about vampires. There is so much_ I_ don't know, though I _am_ one. And you won't find all the answers no matter how long you study the British Vampire Amendment."

"Oh for God's sake! Stop trying to make it more appealing!" He huffed in annoyance, "I've already told you I would do this! We should meet again tomorrow . . ."

"But I told you not to come tomorrow. I need to . . . feed. Don't try to come to me until I do this. Please! Don't you know how close I came to losing control?"

"Oh Molly, I was not at all concerned, not for a moment."

Molly remembered the racing of his heart rate that told a different tale, but she remained silent.

"You are still Molly Hooper. Vampire? Perhaps. But still as incapable of causing harm to another living human being, as ever. It's not in your nature." Sherlock pulled on his coat and knotted his scarf around his neck as he smiled down at her confidently.

"My nature is now vampire, Sherlock. I really don't know what I'm capable of and I don't fancy putting it to the test!" And was he really smirking at her now, after all that had happened tonight? She felt a bit miffed, but it was tempered by a much greater feeling of warmth and gratitude that was bubbling up inside of her.

"There's much more to your nature than vampire. Your morals run deeper than any new set of instincts recently acquired. You wouldn't have harmed me. I know this." It was so easy to let his soothing baritone convince her.

"Then you know more than I do."

"Exactly." He nodded, not a trace of doubt. "Now let me do my work."

One thing still nagged at her. "Sherlock, why? Why would you do this for me?"

"Because, believe it or not Molly Hooper, I consider you a friend."


	5. Bloodletting

_I got the ways and means_

_To New Orleans_

_I'm going down to the river_

_Where it's warm and green_

_I'm going to have a drink and walk around_

_I've got a lot to think about_

_Oh yeah_

_(Bloodletting – The Vampire Song by Concrete Blonde)_

**Sherlock throws himself into this case. It's better than dwelling on mythological creatures becoming a reality! He really does have quite a lot to think about though, doesn't he?**

**Please ignore errors if you can. Someday I'll look about and find a beta? I get so impatient though and want to publish the second I finish a chapter! I can't believe how complete this story is in my head. Watch the music videos if you can to set the mood! Thanks for reading!**

**Oh and I don't own the characters, not being paid for this of course. It is all for fun!**

Sherlock left Molly's flat with a spring in his step that had been lacking on his arrival hours earlier. Discovering that his pathologist was indeed a vampire and witnessing several things that defied physical law had shaken him to his core. His deeply held belief in scientific evidence had been shattered beyond recognition over the course of an evening and it wasn't clear how long it would take to catologue this new information and put it in an order that made sense.

However, there were two points that he held on to and he would use them as a guide to forge ahead. The first point being the new case he was now looking forward to cracking. It wasn't as difficult to deal with impossibly low vital signs, diets that consisted solely of blood, and wounds that healed instantly, when there was a crime on which to focus his attentions. He could tell himself that none of this mattered. The familiarity of doing research, sifting through evidence and making deductions brought him great comfort. With that purpose he could suspend his disbelief.

The second item that had brought him some relief, he could not as easily admit. For months he had refused to acknowledge Molly's turning. In part this was due to his inability to merge his own beliefs with this new reality, but if he was to examine his inaction on a deeper level he would have to admit that what he really was afraid of was losing Molly Hooper. Not just as his pathologist, though he valued her abilities beyond any other professional in her field, but as a friend.

Recent years had brought Sherlock a new understanding of friendship. He had sacrificed everything for the people he valued and in return Molly had risked much for him. He was incapable of expressing how much this affected him, the man who used to close himself off from all forms of sentiment

But he had always had a great capacity for caring, which was why he had so adamantly refused to acknowledge sentiment. He always knew it was his greatest weakness, his pressure point. When it became apparent that it could also be an asset and a source of strength, he began to open himself up to allow it access. He was like a child in his dealings with emotion, there was much for him to learn. But care he did!

And the thought of Molly, so changed, so altered from the reliable and constant friend she was, well it was an extremely unsettling thought. He chose denial and avoidance which, of course was not a help to anyone.

Tonight Molly had come so very close to crossing a line, becoming some dark alien thing, utterly unrecognizable. But she had come back to herself and she was still the same sweet Molly. Scared and sad she may be, but she still felt like . . . Molly.

He would throw himself into this investigation for her sake and everything would go back to the way it had been before, or at least some close resemblance.

It was still a few hours before dawn when Sherlock stepped out into the street clutching the cat carrier in one hand and the shopping bag in the other. He managed to hail a cab and was soon making his way back to Baker Street. He had many things he needed to accomplish today and was looking forward to starting the work.

Soon he was making his way up the stairs to his flat after a quick stop to see Mrs Hudson.

He knocked on her door which he thought was quite polite of him, but she did not immediately respond to the pounding of his fist on the wood. He could have picked the lock but she had threatened to evict him the last time she found him wandering around her flat in the middle of the night nearly scaring her witless.

He finally resorted to the tried and true method.

"MRS. HUDSON!" he yelled.

She answered her door in a flannel dressing gown and some sort of cream dabbed under her eyes. She looked a bit tired Sherlock thought, not considering the ungodly hour of his visit, instead writing it off as a rather ghastly effect of the eye cream.

He quickly explained how he thought she needed a cat to keep her company. After all, he was so frequently out on cases, without the benefit of his companionship. A pet would be just the thing, he reasoned.

"And so here he is." Sherlock plastered a grin on his face, which he thought must be the proper look of someone offering such a thoughtful gift.

"Oh but Sherlock dear, I don't know if I really want a cat. They shed, oh and there's the litter box to consider. And I'm not sure, but I think I might be allergic!"

He waved away her excuses "Fortunately there are many over the counter remedies. And if they don't work, well, it is always an advantage to be closely acquainted with a good physician. I am sure John will write something up for you. There's a dear." He pushed the carrier into his landlady's hands.

"But Sherlock-" She began.

"No need to thank me. His name is Toby, by the way." He handed over the bag and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before turning to dash up the stairs.

Mrs Hudson let out a long suffering sigh and went back into her flat muttering to herself all the while about not being a pet sitter, but Toby was the only one to hear her grumblings.

The next couple of hours Sherlock spent with his lap top, a dozen tabs open all at once. He quickly read through The British Vampire Amendment and the transcripts of several prominent court cases involving Vampire related crimes. He scrolled through article after article from the Great Revelation to the present.

Eventually he found himself watching a video blog on a website, . He almost disregarded it after the first few entries. Jessica seemed like any intellectually challenged teenager, making faces at the camera, building pyramids with a half a dozen bottles of TruBlood, though he noted with some interest that Jessica disliked the flavour as much as Molly did, though she made no mention of intolerance. He almost clicked away from her playlist when her first earnest video began. A recently turned vampire, she seemed as scared and confused as Molly. He made a mental note to share this with the pathologist. It might be some comfort to her. After that, Jessica was back to blithering on about boys and fashion and surprisingly typical subjects that would appeal to that age group. In other words, dull.

By the time she started instructing vampires how to pass for human using spray on tan (which made her turn an alarming shade of orange) and introducing her human boyfriend which ended with them snogging in front of the camera, Sherlock had to stop watching for fear of losing brain cells, though it was interesting that she managed to keep a human boyfriend. He wondered how that worked?

He began a search on articles regarding vampire feeding habits and came upon website after website that resembled dating profiles or some type of escort service. The difference was in the service these humans seemed to be offering. They called themselves donors. Oh, their profiles were like any of the aforementioned sites. They usually included photos of the person making a face that they must deem seductive or flirtatious and included information such as hair colour, eye colour, height, weight, other physical attributes. But they went further, including blood types, preferred bite zones and amount of blood they could offer.

Humans offering blood with a monetary value attached! Obviously these people were not expecting to die or turn into vampires themselves if they were providing a continuing service with repeat clientele. And if humans were only a source of food, why would the physical attributes of the donor be of any importance? A preferred blood type might be a consideration. But how could gender and sexual preferences affect the nourishment gained in feeding?

Sherlock touched the place on his neck were Molly had dragged her teeth across his skin. He felt something there and jumped up to look in the mirror over the fire place. He saw two long red welts, the skin unbroken. Again he felt that strange twist in his belly at the memory of Molly's teeth on his neck. Why did the memory trigger such a response? He needed to walk outside in the cold air and think.

He grabbed his coat and scarf, ran down the stairs, out the door into the brisk predawn air. The sky was lightening on the eastern horizon and there was already a bustle of activity in the street as people started there way to where ever their lives led. Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets and walked at a fast clip not really watching where his feet were taking him. Eventually he found himself on the walkway along the rivers edge. He continued head down, hands thrust deeply in pockets, his focus turned inward.

Brief research had lead him to the knowledge that vampires could feed from humans quite easily without it leading to death. Molly had been terrified that she might kill Sherlock that night. Why did she fear her ability to control her hunger?

He took only a moment to be sure that Molly's morals would never permit her to kill, yet he had experienced a momentary thrill, and it had a familiar feeling hadn't it? He felt it before, sometimes when cracking a particularly complex case, the exhilaration of finding the one element that would tie all the seemingly unrelated threads together, where it all become so wonderfully obvious. He was reminded of the thrill of the chase when danger pursued him, John by his side, their very lives in the balance, dodging death and triumphing over evil.

And it echoed of the dark years. First the heightened awareness that a good line of cocaine brought when snorted through a rolled up pound note. He could recall reeling with his new ability to take on absolutely anything. His body finally able to keep up with his mind, which had always worked relentlessly, giving him not a moments peace. He could attend classes, complete assignments, do lab work and also attend to his many personal experiments. He would spend days and days without needing to sleep until he came crashing down. And he did crash. Hard.

He also remember the allure of the needle in the empty years. Thrown out of Uni, avoiding Mycroft and his parents, looking for anyway to deal with the tedious mediocrity of life. He just wanted to block out everything, to melt into nothingness until his cells dissolved and his atoms scattered. Heroin brought him to a place of bliss and oblivion. At least it did at first. The time spent in beautiful nothingness became shorter and less fulfilling until it was a pale glimmer of what it had once been, leaving nothing but the craving which was a monster, a snarling dragon that threatened to consume him.

So why did he associate these feelings with Molly's teeth at his neck? Was it the danger? Was it the possibility of oblivion by death? Was it a puzzle to be solved and a life to be saved? He could not be certain. The only thing he was sure of, was the intoxicating thrill of it.

He was sure that if Mycroft knew what he was thinking, he would do everything in his power to put a stop to his involvement with this case. _As if Mycroft could,_ Sherlock scoffed at the very idea. But perhaps there was a legitimate concern here? Risk did hold a certain attraction for him, but pushing that aside maybe he should examine any deeper motives.

For God's sake, this was Molly, his meek little pathologist! Whatever his motives were, no matter how confusing his obligations to friendship made him feel, he couldn't very well, in good conscience leave her to her own devices. She who had displayed such loyalty and selflessness deserved the same treatment. He was determined to help. Though he had come no where near the bottom of his personal issues involving this case, he at the very least clarified his resolve. With that done, he made his way back to Baker Street.

He spent mid day continuing his research and sending a number of texts, the start of a plan beginning to coalesce.

John dropped by per Sherlock's texted request and he sat down in his chair sighing contentedly as he sipped the tea Mrs Hudson had brought on a tray with some biscuits on a plate along side the steeping pot.

"Here you go dear. Aaah-aaaah-choo! Oh sorry about that!" She apologized, her eyes were red and watery. She sneezed a few more times for good measure into a well used hanky. "You must be exhausted, what with the new baby." She blew into the hanky and tucked it into the sleeve of her cardigan.

"Yeah, well Mary and I have been playing a good game of tag team nappy change at night, but I can't complain. She's nursing Emily, so she's doing the lion's share of night time baby care by default. But I do what I can. I really miss her at the surgery though. No one can quite fill her shoes." John looked at Mrs Hudson's runny nose. "But how about you? Not feeling well?"

"Oh it's nothing. Just a bit of allergies, dear." She waved off John's concern. "I've come into possession of a new cat. I'm just nipping off to the shop to pick up some supplies and perhaps a remedy? Do you boys need anything?"

"No thank you." John stood as she made ready to leave. "A cat, eh? Whatever made you decide to get a cat with allergies as bad as that?"

"Wasn't my choice." Mrs Hudson gave Sherlock a dark look, but he paid no heed as she made her way down the stairs.

John turned and gave Sherlock a stern look "You gave Mrs Hudson a cat? With allergies like that? Are you mad?"

"Nooo, John. Of course I didn't know she was allergic. I know she worries about the mess. That is why she has never had a pet. But she has cat lady written all over her. Just give her a few days and the right medication. Everything will be perfectly fine."

John just looked at Sherlock in that exasperated way he so often gave him and moved away from the topic.

"So why was it so urgent that you needed me to drop everything and come here straight away."

"I have a new case. You drove to work today. Very good! Do you fancy going for a drive tonight?"

**A/N Jessica's blog is a real True Blood thing. Again, you don't have to be a True Blood fan to enjoy this story. It is completely Sherlock-ccentic and it completely disregards the True Blood timeline. That's why I didn't post it as a crossover. Too loosey goosey on the True Blood story front. **


	6. Shut-Eye

_**Sorry for the long wait. I was struck by the dreaded summer cold and fell into fanfiction reading mode, rather than writing. There is entirely too much talent out and ever so many brilliant story ideas to abstain from reading. Now let's see what Vampire Molly is up to!**_

_You should've got a better bed_

_Better for your head_

_Better heads need shut eye_

_You should've got out of the red_

_In the red you're better off dead_

_Deader than the red dead sea_

_Promise it to me_

_Promise me the sea_

_(Shut Eye – Stealing Sheep)_

In the predawn hour, as Sherlock Holmes walked along the river's edge with only his troubled thoughts to keep him company, it just so happened that Molly Hooper had also stepped briskly into the darkened streets. And if his thoughts were a little grim and confusing, her own were not exactly easy.

She had slipped out of the warm light of her building and into the damp early morning chill. Turning her face into the breeze she allowed the scent of the city to wash over her.

Molly had entered this new state of existence, quite literally kicking and screaming. Overall the experience was terrifying. But of all the horrors that had befallen her in recent months, there was one thing, one lovely experience that had taken her quite by surprise.

The first night she had opened her new vampire eyes, it was as if the world had changed in the space of a day. The intensity of colours, the loveliness of sounds, the extraordinary smells, it felt to Molly how she imagined it must be like for a newborn child, experiencing every thing for the very first time.

When she walked the dark streets of London that first night she was stunned by the intense beauty of the city. The neon lights she had always found rather garish before, were like Christmas trees all aglow on Christmas eve. And there were more stars in the sky than she thought possible, cutting through the city's glare.

Early that morning the stars had become obscured by storm clouds and a brief rain had fallen, the rain drops making patterns of concentric circles in the puddles, which had mesmerized Molly. There was the perfection of math and science there!

She had not been able to peel her eyes from the sights that night. She had simply walked for hours trying to see everything, in every direction, twisting and turning, gaping at the wonders around her.

And the smells! Why even now, she could understand so much by the odours that filled her nostrils! She could smell the rain that had fallen earlier that night and the wet pavement, too. She could smell the promise of snow that would surely fall later that day. The subtle scent of the pages of a book were every bit as interesting as the strong scent of exhaust fumes curling an acrid smoke into her upturned nose. It wasn't unpleasant, it was interesting when combined with all of the other odours and together they told a story.

And oh my, the amazing scent of all of the warm blood travelling in each body that passed her on the street. She couldn't ignore those, if she tried! It was a delicious torture!

And then there were the sounds - she could hear so much now! As she walked through the night she heard conversations whispered between secret lovers in darkened doorways as they merged and separated and merged once again. The sound of their soft kisses, some as delicate as a spring shower, others as intense as tropical storms all lashing waves and howling winds. Molly was an intruder, eavesdropping with a longing heart at exchanges that seemed beyond her forever more.

Tactile sensations were now intensified by tenfold! How delightful it was to feel the wind on her skin, to feel frost on blades of grass. A scratchy wool jumper could hold her attention for an hour and the cool china of a teacup, all smooth perfection, was a complete world unto itself!

She would have loved the furry, warm sensation of stroking Toby, if he had only permitted it.

And then there was the feeling of Sherlock's warm smooth neck under her mouth.

At first, the lovely smell of his blood had overwhelmed her, but now, as her boots clacked on the pavement that early morning, she recalled the feel of his skin with such vivid clarity, it was almost painful!

The lovely warmth of his body as he held her.

The heat of his breath on her upturned face.

She sighed with frustration at the turn of her thoughts. She had nearly killed a man that she considered a friend and he in turn was offering to help her and all she could think about was her predictable infatuation with the man. It was pathetic!

Yet, this did not feel quite like her old crush, did it? This was something new. It's not like she ever before fantasized about sinking her teeth in his neck and tasting his blood. She had never before felt weak in the knees over the sound of his heart pumping the rich blood through his veins and arteries.

Was this just the vampiristic manifestation of her crush? She didn't know, but she tried her best to smother the longing. There was no place for that anymore in her life. And really, just when had that _ever_ been a possibility? Certainly Sherlock had made it abundantly clear that he was married to his work. And, well, if ever there had existed that chance, the time was now long gone. They were now of different worlds. The sooner she accepted that reality, the better!

As she turned the corner and increased her pace, light touched the horizon.

Dawn.

The call to Go to Ground was not something a vampire could easily dismiss. An instinct deeply ingrained in the undead, it was a necessity for survival. Without it, the existence of vampires would not likely have remained hidden for all the many untold years.

And as Sherlock continued to work through the day, foregoing sleep to continue his work, Molly was not permitted that luxury. It was her new instinct, hardwired in her nervous system, she felt the coming of the day like a subtle threat. It started as a niggling, a vague worry, like an itch behind her eyes and grew ever more persistent until it could no longer be ignored.

There was a time when she had once loved her bedtime rituals. After a hot bath, it was quite common for Molly to gather up her cat and a trashy romance novel before heading to her bedroom. Settling down into her soft mattress, she would pull the duvet up to her chin. Luxuriating in the feeling of surrounding herself with these simple comforts, she would read for some time, stroking Toby now and again just to hear him purr. And finally, when her eyes grew too heavy to keep open, she would put her book aside, turn off the bed side lamp and surrender herself to sleep.

The vampire experience of rest was nothing like that. It was a cruel mockery at best.

It had already faded from her memory, the feeling of the simple act of sleep. In it's place, a new instinct to flee from the sun's light intruded her thoughts with increasing urgency as dawn approached, until what had started as a whisper grew steadily louder until it reached a screaming crescendo.

Indeed, the call to go to ground was not a thing that could be ignored! But the alternative was to face the sun and die the slow agonizing True Death.

Not that Molly went underground. Not in the literal, under-the-dirt-in-the-graveyard sense. Not since that first terrifying day, clutched in her maker's arms. She tried very hard not to think about that day but it often came to her in horrifying flashbacks as she lay waiting for the cruel sun to push itself over the Earth's edge. The feeling of dirt filling her mouth, pressing down upon her body, came back to her in great clarity at such times. And though her body was no longer dependent on oxygen for survival, she nonetheless, remembered well, the feeling of panic when the supply of it had been suddenly cut off. It had hurt!

So instead of curling up snug in her bed back in her flat, she made her way to the place she had rented as shelter from the coming day. Instead of her cheery pink bedroom, which could not effectively stave off the sun's light, she plunged into blackness in a tiny basement vault. It was a bare, stark space, but it served it's purpose, efficiently blocking out all traces of daylight.

She dreamed of a day when she could afford a real light tight flat, a place that felt like home. Unfortunately the exorbitant prices of such abodes and the current instability of her position at work made this an impossible dream.

After a short walk, she arrived at her destination, an unremarkable three-storey brick building that housed a complex of light tight vaults. She fit her key in the front door and let herself inside. With a quick wave at the security guard at the front desk, she made her way to the end of the dimly lit hall. She entered a narrow stair case and descended to a smaller basement corridor lined with heavy steel doors.

Letting herself into her little room and locking the door behind her, she drew the sturdy deadbolt against the coming day. The room was empty, with the exception of a narrow bed and Molly made her way to the solitary piece of furniture. She threw her bag on the floor and lay herself down.

She curled in on her self and found she was once again hugging her knees, trying to find solace in the gesture. It was such a silent and lonely place, it may as well have been an actual tomb. This place, like no other had the effect of making her feel so utterly alone.

She found her thoughts turning to Sherlock

She opened the bag she had carried with her and pulled out a dark article of clothing and bringing it up to her face Molly inhaled deeply.

She had found Sherlock's jacket draped over the back of a kitchen chair as she was tidying up after his hasty departure. He must of removed it when he had fetched a towel for her and had subsequently forgotten it, leaving in only his button down shirt under his Belstaff.

Picking the jacket up, she had noted the sleeves stiffening with drying blood and had stood with the it clutched in her hands, thinking that she should throw it in with her own bloody clothing to see if her cleaner could do anything to save it. For some time she had stood there unmoving, until she had lifted the collar up to her nose and inhaled his lovely scent.

So instead of tossing it into the dry cleaner bag but she found herself instead, stuffing it into her shoulder bag, carrying it with her to the vault.

How long would his smell remain in the fabric, she wondered? She wanted to secret it away and relish his lovely scent. She thought of his strange visit and her conflicting emotions for the consulting detective. There was a part of her that very much wanted to believe that he could just waltz into her life and fix everything like some bloody film hero. But in reality she knew this was a foolish way to think, and dangerous, too.

He was a brilliant man. She knew better than most, the extent of his genius. He was capable of great acts of heroism despite his protestations. Realistically she understood that Sherlock's interest in the case had much more to do with his apprehension in regards to the Great Revelation. But she also knew that he really did feel a sense of loyalty to his friends.

But it wasn't as if it could really change anything in the end. She knew perfectly well whom had done this to her. What did it matter? It would be his word against hers and she knew there was not enough evidence to send him to jail. And though there were many vampires who only wished for equality, there were others that were not as peaceful. Intellect could not always defeat evil, at least not an evil with the all of the powers of immortality.

No, she couldn't let him do this. She was heartened by his concern whatever the motive, but she wouldn't let him throw away his gifts for her sake. She just wouldn't allow it!

Now she lay on her narrow bed curled around Sherlock's jacket, his smell a comfort to her as the terror of day approached, dragging her down into nothingness. She felt that familiar struggle as she tried to remain conscious. Once more, she lost this battle, but she was soothed by the scent that followed her into the dreamless depths.

OOOoooOOOoooOOOoooOOO

"Sit still, _ma souris_! You have the most _beaux yeux. _I hate covering them in all this black shit, but you have to present the image, _non?"_

Molly tried to stop her fidgeting as the dark haired, buxom woman leaned in with a black eye liner pencil, which she wielded with a practiced skill.

Molly Hooper sat in a dressing room at the Danse Macabre, one of several of London's new Vampire dance clubs. The sounds of pounding electronic music could be heard vibrating through the walls but the hour was still relatively early. The crowd was sparse at the moment, but it would not be long before the rush of clubbers would press through the doors. Molly and Rochelle, along with several others were making preparations for the evening.

Rochelle was a vampire and just over a century old. She was a genuine french dilettante from the late 19th Century Montemartre and had the diverse experience of a prolonged life drenched in debauchery. Her conversations fairly dripped with sexual innuendo and explicit details of her many conquests.

Molly couldn't help but to love her just a bit. Yes, she could be crude, not a trait that Molly usually admired, but she was also warm and welcoming and she had made it her personal mission to take Molly under her wing and help her navigate this strange new world.

Now Rochelle faced Molly, applying thick black lines around her eyes. It was a necessary costume and if all went well, the reward would be great. The objective of this evening was to attract a meal.

Molly had always been such an amateur to the mysterious art of seduction. Fortunately, this was Rochelle's forte and so she took care of these things for her new friend. She seemed to enjoy fussing over and attending to her like a long lost sister.

Her brow furrowed in concentration as she looked down at the little pathologist. Applying just a little more powder to her cheeks and forehead, Rochelle stood back to admire her work.

"_Mon D__ieu! _Such beauty! _Tres bien_!" She clasped her hands at her ample bosom which threatened to burst free of the confines of her corset.

Molly tried to peer into the vanity to her right, but Rochelle put a hand out to stop her.

"Wait, wait, _s'il vous plait! _Come see in the full length mirror. And take off that dressing gown." The older vampire helped Molly up from her seat and taking her by the arm, she lead her across the room.

Molly made her way to the body length mirror on wobbly legs. The heels of her patent white shoes were treacherously high, in complete contrast to her hospital flats which were made for comfort and long hours of standing at post mortems.

Slipping the robe off and she handed it to Rochelle who tossed it over the back of the chair. And she turned to take in her reflection.

It was as if a stranger looked back at her from the gold framed looking glass; a stranger with a fetishistic fashion sense.

First, there was the make up itself. Rochelle had painted her face, not to appear more human, but rather the opposite, to emphasis an ethereal and decidedly non living quality. It sent a clear message. She was Vampire!

Her skin was powdered to an even whiter shade, if that was possible. It fairly glowed and Molly noted a sparkle of iridescent glitter dabbed here and there completing her otherworldly look.

She peeked out at her reflection from thick, black eyeliner and long fringes of black lashes. A smokey gray shadow all around her eyes seemed more fitting for Halloween and not at all like her usual minimalistic dash of colour.

She felt false, like a caricature in some graphic novel with super heroes clad in spandex pants and metal chest plates. She had been rendered into a fictitious version of herself.

But it was the dress she dreaded the most. Unlike her usual baggy trousers, blouses, and figure obscuring jumpers, this frock was the polar opposite to her accustomed garb.

It was tiny. In fact tiny was hardly a proper descriptive word. Miniscule was more to the point. It was exceedingly short, barely covering her bottom and it plunged both in the front _and_ the back. It was white and lacy and provided minimal coverage. It left her feeling terribly exposed.

Too top it all off, Rochelle had let Molly's hair loose, teasing it up a bit so that it floated around her head like some windswept mere maid.

She felt tears of humiliation prickle her eyes but she refused to let them fall. She refrained for two reasons. One, being that she really did not want to hurt Rochelle's feelings. She loved Molly and would never try to hurt her. But she was right, there was a certain image that the club patrons wanted to see at the Danse Macabre. They wanted the gothic image of Vampire that the media had built over the past century.

Rochelle understood this and prided herself in the artistry of this bit of theatre. That's why she stood there, hands clasped at her impressive cleavage spilling over her corseted black bodice, looking just as pleased as punch. She was proud of her work!

And that led to the second reason. Molly was starving! She must feed tonight or risk losing control, perhaps endangering some innocent bystander. At the Danse Macabre, she would be watched over and that made her feel safe.

And the donors came quite willingly, eager to present artery rich necks pumping with life sustaining blood.

Like it or not, she had to play the part if she wanted to eat.

"_Tres_ _attrayant! _Very sexy! Oh you will feed well tonight, _ma souris__. _Perhaps, who knows? You may get as lucky as me? I had such a feisty one last night! I fed on him, then he fed on me. _Manger les uns autres! _So tasty, _non? _I fucking love it when they bite back!" Rochelle giggled.

"Bite back?" Molly asked, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know, sometimes you get such a naughty little human who loves playing vampire so much they bite back. Mmmm, it's just so sexy!"

"I could give you a good bite, love!" Gareth, one of the club's human employees sashayed through the room, catching the last fragment of their conversation.

"And so you have, _Mon chou_." Rochelle pinched Gareth's cheek and her laughter filled the room once again. He snapped his teeth at Rochelle and flashed her a stunning smile. Molly couldn't help but to join their laughter at heir silly flirtations. Once more Molly had to admit how likeable some of these people were.

"Listen, love." Gareth addressed Molly. "Just letting you know that they're almost ready for you. Soon as your song starts, you're on, sweetie."

"Oh _ma souris! _It's exciting, yes? I am so glad you came tonight." Rochelle gathered Molly up into a rib cracking hug. "I just wish you wouldn't starve yourself before coming out to feed."

Molly broke away and grinned at the dark haired vampire gratefully. But the smile faded as she heard the cheers at the start of her song. And so with quaking nerves and much trepidation, Molly gathered up her courage and made her way out of Rochelle's safe embrace and out into the gathering crowd.


	7. With Teeth

**_Thank you for all of the lovely reviews and follows! Regular Disclaimer : I own nothing! If you are inclined, maybe listen to the song for each chapter? They are all on youtube. Thanks again Sherlollylovlies!_**

_Wave goodbye_

_To what you were_

_The roles have changed_

_The lines begin to blur_

_She makes you hard_

_It comes on strong_

_You finally found_

_The place where you belong_

_(With Teeth - Nine Inch Nails)_

When vampires had come out of the coffin – an affectionate euphemism for the Great Revelation – there was an unexpected boost to the economy. It shouldn't have come as a surprise, for if there was one thing that humanity had proven to be quite adept at, it was finding ways to turn circumstances into profit.

As it turned out, vampires were a prosperous lot, generally speaking. Imagine what one could do to accumulate wealth with a little creativity and an unlimited lifespan. It was rather impressive, the cash they had at their disposal and they poured it back into the market with great enthusiasm.

Living out in the open, they felt an increased freedom in spending their wealth, now that the funds could be banked and spent without the need of forged documents and false identities. The effects were felt in rising stocks at an international level.

The construction and renovation industry saw a fair increase in job opportunities with the demand for light tight accommodations. Vampires lay down big money for luxury homes, invested in local companies and even opened their own private businesses. Employment rates went up as vampire business owners hired human employees to run their daytime hours and the benefits had a global impact.

Another industry that was reaping the rewards of the existence of vampires was tourism. Of course the population in general was swept away with vampire mania and maybe it was a bit opportunistic to take advantage, but who could be blamed for wanting a piece of the action? Particularly when there was such a substantial amount of money to be made.

Throngs of people flocked to vampire hot spots, popularized by both classic and modern fiction. New Orleans became a mecca for vampire tourism, or vamptourism, as it came to be known. Who didn't want to see those famous exotic locations described in those ever so popular books and movies? Louisiana's Oak Alley Plantation never saw such comings and goings and the French Quarter was packed . . . well more packed, as it had never suffered a lack of tourists. But now they converged on the area in search of a certain blonde and beautiful vampire. Alas, he was sadly no more than a work of fiction.

New resorts were, at that very moment under construction, opening the Carpathians for Bram Stoker enthusiasts. Castle ruins were overrun by a frenzy to learn more about the roots of the legends made popular on page and screen, even if they were far removed from the reality of modern world vampires.

There was even a renewed surge in tourism to Forks, Washington, the home of the newest fictional vampire family, the Cullens. Many vampires came forward to clarify that they did not in fact, sparkle in the sun, to quickly dispel any unfortunate misunderstandings.

But there was more to the vamptoursim industry than could be found in the more popular tourist magazines. A blurb in a city's night life pages might make mention of a new burgeoning business that was seeing exponential growth. More commonly, one might find the adverts in less family oriented publications, papers that were filled with ads for escort services, strip clubs and peepshows. One might find an ad for these places beside those personal ads that often read like this; _20 something male, __fit__ and well hung. _

And so Sherlock Holmes found himself at the very doors of one such establishment, that went by the name of _The Danse Macabre. _Vampire Clubs were doing a brisk business these days, attracting a wide array of people from the curious to the fetishistic, and everyone in between. And although there was a certain stereotype of black clad vampire-fanciers drawn to the clubs, there were many others that could not be generalized by age, gender, cultural or economic background.

The doors were heavy steel and painted a flat black with no window in which to catch a glimpse of the activity within the place. Sherlock Holmes pulled the doors open and disappeared into the murky innards, where his body was immediately assaulted by the vibrations of pulsing techno industrial music. The dance floor was crowded with people and they all seemed directly plugged into a common electrical current as they moved in collective undulations with the beat.

Ever attentive, Sherlock studied the club patrons as he made some rapid observations.

_Two men seated at bar; man on the right is in his early 70's; wear's a wedding ring, widowed not long ago, touches ring constantly. His complexion is jaundiced; a crease on wrist from prolonged wearing of hospital identification bracelet, recently diagnosed with terminal illness, likely cancer of the liver, he holds a drink but does not indulge. Man on left, approximately 40, not married, not comfortable with being here, looking about with obvious nervousness and mistrust. Similar facial structure, son or nephew helping the elder relation with something he likely refers to as his bucket list._

He scanned about some more.

_Group of youths, dressed in excessive black clothing. Three of them have only become of age within the year, while the remaining two have entered with the use of false identifications. The under aged male, smells of narcotics, stains on fingers indicate habitual use of tobacco, clothing of higher quality than friends suggest access to money and with all signs pointing towards a tendency for minor criminal activity, drug sales are most likely the source of his affluence. Security staff approaching to reassess the ID's. They will be turned away, as this club will want to avoid any negative attention from the media._

Strobes and laser effects lit the dance floor, while the rest of the room's décor looked as if it was ripped from some gothic horror movie set. One of the least distasteful features were several sofas and love seats with ornate wood carved frames and rich velvety upholstery of deep burgundy. The walls were papered with a fleur de lis pattern of textured red on a gold background - staggeringly tacky to be sure! Large framed posters of Bela Lugosi, Vincent Price and Christopher Lee, and other classical horror movie actors hung under dimly lit wall sconces.

Red and Black were the dominate colour scheme and someone with an obvious sense of humour had strung several rubber bats above the bar. They dangled on their respective strings, jiggling in time with the music.

Sherlock Holmes took in all of these details, committing them, as well as the club's layout to memory. He noted the size and dimensions of the room, observing the exits and relating them to the mental map he carried of the streets and alleys surrounding the building.

He had hoped to enter the club, spend some time observing the place and slip out the same way if his search proved fruitless. Unfortunately his presence had not gone unnoticed. It seemed that several men and women – and he had a rather strong suspicion that they were actually vampires if their pallor was any indication - were now approaching him, each from different locations of the room.

Closest to him were a pair of ginger haired women, who appeared to be identical down to the freckles scattered on their pale faces emerging from the shadows of the area to his right. He could make out their icy blue eyes and pale lashes that fringed them. Each had a sickly white complexion, capillaries obviously devoid of any blood to lend even a hint of the blush of life.

Looking around his immediate area, Sherlock quickly plotted five possible evasive courses of action, when suddenly he felt an arm loop through his own. At his side, a petite woman with medium brown hair stood calmly looking up at him with a friendly smile. Unlike many of the club patrons, she dressed in a simple and modest dark puce dress, that would be more fitting at an executive meeting than a vampire dance club. She wore no distinguishing jewelry and her hair was loose, very tidy, with every strand in place. And she too, bore the pallor of a vampire.

Schooling his expression to one of boredom, he permitted himself to be pulled along as it seemed to slow the approach of the others. They fell back a few paces, tracking his movement across the room and following at a distance.

"You could almost pass for one of us, you know." She had to raise her voice to be heard over the music as she guided him towards a far corner of the club where it was not quite as loud.

"You believe I look like a vampire. Why?" Sherlock asked in a bemused tone.

"Yes I do. And I must say, you do a better job than the goth kids over there." She nodded in the direction of the excitable group of youths that were in the process of being turned out of the doors.

He stared after them for a moment wondering how anyone could compare him to that pierced and tattooed lot. His attire was his usual choices; a tailored two piece suit sans tie with a black button down shirt, his voluminous coat floating about him and with its upturned collar. Drops of moisture still clung to his dark hair from the melting snow that was lightly falling that evening and his curls looked wild. He extracted his arm from her grasp and ruffled his hair to a more controlled chaos.

He arched a brow at her."Hmm, I'm afraid I would need to gain some facial piercings and an appreciation for leather. Though it does give one pause for thought in regards to choosing tattoo designs. Laser removal is an option these days, but it is hardly perfect. Would I appreciate a picture of Baphomet on my forearm 20 years from now?" The sarcasm suffusing his tone dropped away. "I'm curious, what gives away my true nature?"

"It would be your smell, of course." With that said, she leaned in and sniffed him in unbeknownst mimickry of Molly's actions of the previous evening.

"It is decidedly _not_ vampire. But it_ is_ exquisite! Look at the attention you are attracting!" She gestured to the group of vampires that were now following them closely. The ginger twins were closing in quite aggressively, baring sharp fangs in identical snarls, and with that Nora spun around, turning to address them.

"Sod the fuck off you cunting twats! He's mine!" She spat. Point made apparently as her wrath was enough to send them scattering.

She turned back as if nothing untoward had happened, smiling calmly in Sherlock's direction.

"I'm not" Sherlock said.

"What?"

"I'm not yours. I don't believe I have given consent. That is the law, is it not? Express permission must be granted before a vampire may lay claim to a human."

She looked at him and chuckled. "Such a pity! It really is too bad because you _do_ smell delicious. You're sure then? I wouldn't be a glutton. No? Well then, let's just pretend for the time being that you are with me. You attract far too much attention for your safety. In my company you will not be troubled. Now I believe you are here with a purpose, Mr Holmes?"

_Ah, the penny drops_. "And of course, you seem to know who I am. But I'm afraid that I am at a disadvantage. I am quite certain we have never been introduced." He looked at her expectantly.

"I am Nora. Nora Gainsborough. And I am here to help you." She offered her hand to the consulting detective and he shook it politely.

He swept his gaze across the bar before returning to met her eyes, his expression now revealing the depth of his cynicism. "And Nora, you are here to offer me help out of the generosity of your heart? Having anticipated that I would just happen to be here at this very place, on this very night? As my mysterious vampire benefactress?" And of course Sherlock could not help but tack on an insult. "Should you not be haunting some exotic location, perhaps in Romania?"

Nora threw back her head and laughed merrily. "You are quite amusing. Transylvania? No. I'm afraid I'm rather uninteresting. I hate to let you down, Mr Holmes, but I was born in Surrey. I know! Dull, right?"

"A local girl? I finally have a guardian vampire and she is from Surrey. How dreadfully disappointing." Sherlock retorted.

"King Charles II certainly did not find me quite so dull, though ultimately I guess I did disappoint him, too."

Obviously this was Nora's not-so-subtle way of telling him that she was 400 years old. This was something Sherlock was not yet ready to accept so he let her comment slide by without acknowledgment.

It was Nora's turn to smirk. "So you're famous for this science of deduction? What do you deduce when you see me, I wonder?"

He looked her over and was distressed by how little he could read. Everything about her was a little too perfect, a little too polished. It was the flaws that offered up the most telling clues. Her make up was impeccable, too tidy to read any nervousness or disruptions that might have occurred while she had meticulously applied it. Her clothing revealed no spills or wrinkles, not even a stray hair or pulled thread to tell a tale. And had there been a hair out of place, Sherlock had a feeling that it would be rather like reading a corpse that was dressed by a mortician. Were there any clues to be revealed, they would be more of a deduction of the embalmer, rather than the corpse. It was quite disconcerting.

"It's difficult isn't it?" Nora asked. "And I would be willing to wager that the older the vampire you meet, the greater challenge they will present. Now the question is whether you can trust me or not." Her eyes finally found his.

"Oh I would not likely trust you, even if you lay like an open book before me." His eyes were focused and his gaze steady.

"No. I don't believe you would." She smiled in return.

"The real question is, what do you hope to gain by . . . helping me?"

"It's not what you can do for me, rather it is what someone closely associated with you can do. Someone very like yourself, but with access to higher powers."

"Mycroft."

"Yes, Mycroft."

Sherlock scoffed. "Have you met him? He is not exactly inclined to indulge me."

"Oh, but I think he is very inclined to help out his baby brother. In fact he has shown every sign of being exceedingly indulgent when it comes to you. And I _have _met him though I'm afraid we had rather harsh words the last time we met and he won't speak to me at present." Nora took Sherlock's arm again and began to guide them slowly towards the back of the room.

Sherlock allowed himself to be guided along, proceeding with his line of questioning. "And how, may I ask, did you come to be associated with my dearest brother?"

"Let's just say I too hold a position of some power. But right now I need to do some work outside of this organization. Your brother can help me with travel arrangements. I need to go to America and I must not be found in a compromising position, therefore it is imperative that I make all arrangements through Mycroft's channels." They walked through a shadowy arched door frame beyond the bar and turned down a long corridor. The music from the dance floor was muted, fading to a distant echo.

"You really are overestimating my influence over my brother, Miss Gainsborough, but I_ can _promise to deliver your message."

"That is all I ask for." She bowed her head to him. "And now, Mr Holmes, I believe you would like to make a request?"

"I am looking for a friend."

"Well, you have certainly come to the right place for that. All sorts of friends can be found here." She gestured back to the bar.

"I am looking for a specific friend. I am not browsing, Miss Gainsborough." he clarified.

"I know who you are looking for. That would be Molly Hooper, St Bartholomew Hospital's cleverest, and now deadest pathologist. Oh and currently the darling of the vampire club scene."

Sherlock looked at Nora in haughty disbelief. "Darling? When she was unwillingly torn from her human existence? I highly doubt there is anything remotely joyful in this title you have bestowed upon her."

"I didn't say she enjoys her new status. But she has it, whether she wants it or not. And was her human life torn away? I would call it a gift." Nora responded with some heat.

"A gift must be wanted if it is to be perceived as one."

"It is easy to cast judgment on something you know so little about, Mr Holmes. In my experience immortality is a gift. Sometimes, I think perhaps it may be destiny."

As Sherlock Holmes had little belief in destiny he was inclined to respond with a rolling of eyes before letting them roam around their new surroundings. In this darkened chamber Sherlock observed many curtained off booths.

"Welcome to Donor's Alley." Nora said.

And with the dance music now a distance rumble, Sherlock could make out new sounds that suggested activities most carnal in nature playing out beyond the curtained alcoves.

If Miss Gainsborough thought she could shock him, she would be sadly disappointed. Sex did not frighten Sherlock. In his experience, he found it to be a motivator of crimes at an alarming frequency.

He studied her with his bored expression. "Why are you showing me this?"

"I thought perhaps you might change your mind and give me a taste of your delicious smelling blood."

He scowled in annoyance at her taunt.

"Alright, I know. I had to try." She shrugged. "But I want you to understand vampire nature. The nature of how we feed. You hear these sounds, Mr Holmes? These are not sounds of horror. This is pure pleasure!"

Sherlock huffed impatiently "And now you will feel obliged to convince me that this is Molly Hooper's world. This? You are wasting my time!"

"Oh, I think you might be surprised by some of your girlfriend's new inclinations." She smiled.

"Typical. You try to derail my investigation by implying my acquaintance with Dr. Hooper as something more than it is. It won't work. My concern lies in her conviction that she will lose control and kill someone if she lets herself feed freely. And as she is a valued aid to my own work, it is in my best interest to help her."

"Oh yes, I remember fondly the hunger of being a baby vamp. Of course times were different then, Mr Holmes, you understand? So very many people were dying in those days, what were a few more bodies for the plague pits? I, myself nearly succumbed to the black death before I was given my new life. And my maker encouraged us to completely indulge in our feeding instincts. We were brilliant monsters!" She sighed at the memory.

"You speak as though you still view humans as little more than food."

"Officially, I respect human life. Vampires have governed themselves for many years Mr Holmes and as I stated previously, I hold a sensitive position and took an active role in the Great Revelation. But off the record? Humans are no more than prey." She looked at him coldly.

"And if I had given my permission, you would have fed on me like a pig at slaughter." Sherlock stated

"Now I didn't say that, did I Mr Holmes? You are not _quite _like them_."_

"How so?"

Nora made no reply.

"Hmm, and now intentional ambiguity. Predictable. What about your offer to help?"

"Your friend has not been instructed properly." She continued. "In these modern times, it is a maker's responsibility to see to the training of his progeny. They can certainly feed without killing. There are even exclusive feeding relationships. It's a bit disgusting really." Nora pulled a face.

"Explain exclusive feeding relationship." Sherlock was gazing up the row of booths, wondering how the process of feeding worked and why donors came willingly. Was it all for money? What other reasons might there be?

"It is exactly what it sounds like. One vampire feeding off of only one human." Nora noted the direction of his gaze.

"How could that be? Wouldn't the _donor_ run the risk of dying from exsanguination?"

"Mr. Holmes, it is surprising how little blood it takes for our kind to survive. Of course it is fun to glut on blood, I myself prefer that, but it is relatively easy to live on just a small intake."

"Why does Molly not know about this? Her hunger seems to overwhelm her!" He threw up his hands in exasperation.

"Again, her maker is supposed to teach her. But I will explain. Baby vamps are born with intense hunger to ensure their survival. But the hunger is similar to human hunger. Are humans not constantly told to eat slowly, that the stomach takes time to realize it is full? Eat too much, too fast, you risk digestive issues, weight issues, you understand?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Good. If your baby vamp was to access a less voluminous vein, she would not risk killing her victim. After that it is simply a matter of letting the blood flow into her and avoid active sucking. In a short time she should feel satisfied with very little blood loss. It's a technique called sipping, and most of these alcoves are filled with vampires and humans actively practicing just that."

This was good news indeed! Sherlock could arrange feedings for Molly and she could resume a relatively normal existence. Now he only need locate her so they could work out some details, it should be quite simple really.

"Mr Holmes." She interrupted his thoughts. "There is still something I think you don't understand about feeding."

"Then do enlighten me, Miss Gainsborough."

"There is little distinction between feeding and fucking for vampires. It is part of the process of making our progeny. No - bites won't turn you into a vampire! It is much more complicated than that. But it is part of the process. Is it so surprising that we derive sexual pleasure in the act of making our young, whether or not the union is productive? What I find truly surprising is how so many humans derive the same pleasure from being fed upon. Once again, nature provides such a lovely balance, does it not?"

Nora watched as he ingested this information. "As for this science of deduction, I would like to try my hand at it now." She gave him a surreptitious smile.

Sherlock watched as the petite vampire walked to a curtained alcove and stuck her head behind it. Amongst the sighs and moans he heard a whispered conversation and then Nora pulled back the velvety fabric to reveal the occupants within.

Inside the booth, a woman sat on a chair. Her skirt was hiked up to her waist and her legs were widely splayed to accommodate two vampires, one male, one female, kneeling between them. Each vampire had fangs impaling the woman's inner thighs. The female vampire had a hand in the woman's knickers and there her fingers worked vigorously beneath the silky garment, while the male vampire fondled the woman's breasts through her blouse. The woman's head was thrown back, her hair a wild tangle as she cried out in pure ecstasy.

"Oh the femoral artery. Well that's hardly sipping!" She laughed. "No matter! If they feed quickly, she will survive!" The woman wailed in apparent climax. "And by the sounds of it, she is done. Oh, I love happy endings, don't you, Mr Holmes?"

She closed the curtain once again and Sherlock stood there quietly. His simple plan to keep Molly fed had suddenly struck by a rather large complication. He didn't actually believe that Molly would be reduced to . . . that! But why again did he feel that strange thrill course through his body at the memory of her teeth on his neck?

Nora smirked. "Do you want to know the one deduction I can make with unwavering confidence, Mr Holmes?"

"Where one might find the most comfortable and luxurious mausoleums?" Sherlock tried to sound blasé but he felt a tightening in his throat.

She laughed in good humour. "Well, yes that. And one other thing - I know a Fang-banger when I see one. Even if he has yet to discover that fact for himself."

"Fang-banger?"

"Like every human in Donor's Alley, Mr Holmes, they're all Fang-bangers here."

Suddenly, with a change in music, Sherlock heard a loud ruckus of cheering and applauding punctuated by the occasional wolf whistle echo from the distant dance floor.

"I believe we are about to find your lady. But I need to give you a message I was bidden to deliver." Sherlock opened his mouth to interject, but she was so very quick! She grabbed him by the coat and shoved him forcefully against the wall with that brutal vampire strength. The back of his head connected with the stone wall and his teeth clacked together with the force.

"Shut up and listen!" She ordered looking up at him. She was so small in stature, but with the power she wielded, she felt immense. "You have a friend here. Don't make the mistake of thinking that I refer to myself. Now let. Me. Finish! He will threaten you tonight, but he will not harm you or Molly. Not yet. Make your negotiations and find a way out. But don't underestimate him either. He's nothing but a pawn. But remember, pawns do serve a greater power. Be cautious!"

"Who-?" Sherlock began, but Nora was gone in a blur of inhuman vampire speed. The place she had occupied a second ago was now an empty space.

So Sherlock walked back to the main room, rubbing his head, in search of the source of the commotion. What he did not anticipate was that Molly Hooper was the cause. The music blasted the room and the crowds whistled and hollered. And there on a raised platform, in the middle of the room, stood Molly Hooper. She was wearing something uncharacteristically revealing and Sherlock felt an inexplicable wish for her ghastly cherry cardigan to hide her away from lecherous eyes.

A man's jovial voice called out over the crowd.

"Oh yes! She's just lovely now, isn't she? She's our newest baby vamp here at _The Danse Macabre, _and she's pretty hungry, I'd wager. Aren't you now, Molly, my dear? I bet we can find her a good meal, what do you say, folks?"

The cheering that followed conveyed the crowds enthusiastic agreement.

Sherlock looked around for the source of the voice but he already knew to whom it belonged.

And there he was strutting around on the stage not far from where Molly stood with that pinched smile plastered on her face. Sherlock could see right through that expression as he was quite accustomed with all of her nuances. This was the smile Molly wore to cover her pain. He should know as he had been the cause of that expression all too often.

The man continued to laugh in great merriment as he worked the crowd into a sexually charged blood frenzy. But he seemed as jovial and clueless as ever he had been, in Sherlock's limited association with the man.

The consulting detective looked on and then he muttered under his breath.

"Meat dagger . . ."


End file.
